


if loving you is a sin (let me cover myself in it)

by reminaissance



Series: Parállaxis [4]
Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Mild Smut, Modern Era, POV Second Person, Romance, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25950385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reminaissance/pseuds/reminaissance
Summary: She remembers the way Elsa's lips felt against hers and she remembers, too, the way her father screamed when he found her kissing her own sister back. Elsanna drabble. Deals with separation and incest.Inspired by the song "Parallax" by The Careful Ones.
Relationships: Anna & Elsa (Disney), Anna/Elsa (Disney)
Series: Parállaxis [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727911
Comments: 19
Kudos: 162





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> blame this on the fact that i needed a break from jotu and blame any mistakes or holes on the fact that i wrote and proofread everything on the same day.

_If only ever I'd have known, words and lips I'd have sewn and saved for you. And I'm ashamed to share the word. Ashamed to share the word love to cover what I feel for you._

—The Careful Ones, "Parallax"

**_1_**

The first time it happened you were wearing your favorite sundress. 

It was summer; the year of your sixteenth birthday. You remember the way the breeze cooled the sweaty patches on your forehead, and how the canopy of the tree by which you two sat rustled as though it were whispering a story only you could understand. You remember the way her soft lips felt against yours, so scared and so tender—like the love only she could ever give you.

You remember the way your father screamed when he found you kissing your own sister back, and how he and your mother sent her away after that.

It was for college, they said every time you asked why, but you could tell that was only half of the truth because your mother set out to do something so that she wouldn't have to look at you, and your father changed the topic entirely—to school, to homework, and to boys... Always boys.

They took your cellphone away and monitored the internet, and started sending you to therapy soon afterwards. It was all a blur. You didn't like the way Mrs. Robertson's office smelled, of cheap candles and carpet cleaner, and something else you never quite figured out. A smell you then came to hate because it reminded you of the absence of your sister.

They were fifty-minute sessions, almost half of which you spent staring at the spines of the books propped on the bookshelf behind Mrs. Robertson's desk—Jung and Freud and Piaget—and you hated each of them too, because all you wanted was to see Elsa again, and because you didn't understand why a kiss was such a big deal in the first place. 

"How do you feel about your sister?" She tended to ask before you stared at her dumbly. Nothing seemed more obvious to you.

"I love her," you said every time.

You tried escaping once, on the spring of the year you were turning seventeen, after not being able to wish Elsa a happy birthday; after not having her visit during the holidays. You felt like you hated your parents by then, too. Like a bitter taste in your tongue that made it hard to swallow whenever you were around them. Anger. Resentment. It all tasted like blood. But you came to an agreement with them even though you were immature and reckless, that you wouldn't try to run out of home again as long as you could have your phone back. 

They agreed, only to cheat. For they had changed Elsa's phone without telling you.

So you let your anger grow the same way a flower blossoms slowly, when you're not looking. And it wasn't that your parents made your life a living hell. It was that they had deprived you of the only thing that ever really kept you sane. Because Elsa was your sister. She was the one who held you every time you had nightmares; the one who defended you at all costs; the one who used to reach out to the highest cabinet and steal the chocolate your parents hid in there. She was the one you made plans with for the future; and the one who filled up your present with her soft laugh and her blue eyes and her tender hands—and every day you two spent apart made it harder for you to count the faint freckles of her skin whenever you closed your eyes.

Because she was everything and without her, you felt like nothing. 

"You're fixated," your therapist used to say, but you always preferred the word love.

And love is what made you change tactics in the end. You turned the tables; you offered to find a summer job. And it worked, for the most part. You began to convince your parents that the kiss had been a mistake and that you were confused but no more. You would become an adult soon, and when that happened you would have the chance to move out, to find Elsa again, and to pick up where you two left off.

Maybe then you would have the opportunity to explore the word love.

And then your eighteenth birthday came and went, and then your nineteenth, and you started to feel like you could breathe freely again, if only just a little. 

You didn't ask for anything because the only thing you wanted was the only thing your parents would refuse to give you. And still, your mother came to your room. And still, she asked. 

"Are you sure you don't want anything for your birthday? We can bring you something from Philly when we get back." 

"You know what I want," you said.

She sighed and patted the duvet. "This is for your own good," she told you. "What you two did... it isn't normal, or healthy."

She kept patting the bed, fidgeting with her hands, trying to reach out to you as she had done for the past three years. And you said nothing. You held onto your silence with desperation until she sighed and wished you a good night even though it was barely evening.

You said nothing to them for the rest of the night not knowing you would never get to tell them anything at all for the rest of your life. 

And how can one hate someone who no longer lives? How does one redirect their resentment without being consumed by it first?

You see Elsa again the day after the news. She looks all grown up even though she is only twenty-one, and she looks full of sorrow even though you can tell—with the way she holds you and the way she looks at you—that she is happy to see you again.

"I'm so sorry, Anna," she tells you, and you want to ask her why but sadness has a tight grip on your throat, and anger tastes like blood in your mouth, and you are so _, so_ sad. 

So you let her hold your hand for as long as the funeral lasts. 

And you say very little at the reception even though that's not really you, and to every outsider who comes to pay their respects Elsa appears to be nothing more than the older sister—the responsible one; proper and educated. But you know better, because she has always been the silly one for the sake of making you laugh. 

And that night, when everyone has left and it is just the two of you in this empty, broken shell of a home, you share the bed again.

You lie facing each other, holding each other's hands. It suddenly feels as though you are looking at her for the first time, until you realize that you no longer have to close your eyes in order to count the freckles on her cheeks. And somewhere between your exhale and her inhale, you lean closer. 

You hear the air get caught in her throat before she releases it in a quiet sigh, and the warm air that touches your lips brings you back to the summer afternoon that changed everything. It makes you think of your sundress, and the tree that still stands in your backyard, and the way Elsa's blue eyes turned crystalline under the light of the sun.

And suddenly you feel like crying, because this moment fills you with grief and love all at once before the two mix, like salt in water, the same way your lips blend with hers.

* * *

**_2_**

The first time you made love didn't happen as soon as you thought it would.

You chose to wait, because for days going on weeks after the funeral you felt like succumbing to sadness. Because grief was normal and so was regret, and doing anything other than kissing Elsa under the roof you once shared with your parents felt wrong. It was too much of a dichotomy—one you could not bear.

So you talked instead, spent hours doing so amidst long-lasting embraces and tentative kisses. You made plans for the future that melded with memories from the past. Elsa told you about college, about her classes; about the deal your parents had made with the dean and the strict, senseless norms she had to follow. It made you angry, but only for so long, because you found that you no longer had the energy to hold on to it. Not when your heart already felt so full of everything else.

And when the time came for her to leave so that she could start her last year of college, there was no question as to whether or not you would follow.

You convince uncle Kai to help you sell the house. Because this place holds more memories than the ones you wish to create in it, and because to the outside world Elsa is nothing more than your older sister, and you are nothing more than her younger one.

You two find an apartment close to campus. It is small—a shoe box, you'd called it the first day of moving in before Elsa had smiled at you and said, "It is _our_ shoe box."

You decide to take a year off to figure things out and it all becomes a slow period of readjustment after this, and you know this now—you would have never been capable of doing it alone.

Elsa is tender with you even when you don't want her to be, even when you don't know you _need_ her to be, until you realize that she does it for herself almost as much as she does it for you. Because her heart isn't unbreakable, and because she spent the last three years fearing the consequences of her actions.

You hold each other through the night and well into the morning on days that your sister doesn't have school or you don't work at the coffee shop across from campus. It works, for the most part, this routine you have made for yourselves. Slowly, you begin to talk about your parents again—mostly the good parts—because forgiveness feels lighter than resentment, and because you think that maybe, at some point in your lives, they would have been proud of you despite everything.

And when you feel like you're beginning to heal your wounds, something else begins to open up. It makes your kisses bolder, it drives the direction of your hands at night.

The first time it happens you feel as though you could cry, for it is tenderness and passion all at once. Elsa's body fits yours like the missing piece of a puzzle. She moves and rocks against you, fingernails digging into your back as you trace your tongue across the skin of her neck. You tell her that you love her over and over again, and you do. She is your sister, and now your lover, but most importantly, she is your person.

She comes silently and breathes your name, and when she makes you lie on your back you feel as though you are looking at your future in the blue pools of her eyes. So you smile before kissing her deeply, only to moan into her mouth when you feel her hand where you need it most.

You come a little too loudly, and you both laugh, because out of the two you have always been the loud one—in everything. And then you're closing your eyes again so that you can kiss her relentlessly, until she pulls back with a smile that makes you wonder how sadness and joy can show up at once.

"Three years felt like a lifetime," she murmurs.

You hum, steal another tiny kiss from her lips. "There's still a lifetime ahead of us," you say, and you mean it.

You think that life has a way of being ruthlessly generous, because it took away from you in order to give you something back. And you're not grateful for it. Not exactly. Your parents are gone and all you had left to give them in the end was silence. But with Elsa here in your arms you know you will no longer be alone in this lifetime of yours.

And yet, the way she kisses you as though with her entire being makes you feel like you never really were.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (as promised?) here is Elsa's POV. errors are mine and whatnot.... I listened to a lot of music by The Careful Ones btw, not just for the lyrics; i think the music is fitting

_If only ever I had known, if only what it felt to be yours, I would have treasured all of this hell in this hell of a course. All pain has met its worth now I've held to you._

—The Careful Ones, "Parallax"

**_1_**

Being sent away from her hurts you more than you ever thought it would. 

You keep asking yourself why you had to kiss her, but every time you do you close your eyes and the only thing you see is your sister's face: sunlight dancing across her features and a breeze playfully riffling her bangs. It is then, during the first few days of your separation, that you learn the meaning of the word yearning and realize that it is not a strong enough word to cover how you feel.

You'd never meant for any of this to happen—not like this anyway. You had loved her since the moment you knew she existed inside your mother's belly. But love has a way of complicating itself; of being reshaped into something you never expect. And you learn this the hard way: when it feels like it is too late and you're being yanked away from her, on that fateful afternoon during the summer of your nineteenth year.

You recall the sensation of her lips against yours in the cold, dead hours of the night as you lie on the stiff mattress of your college dorm. You go through it in your head over and over again, like a mantra in the shape of a kiss—soft, and warm, and so painfully tender. 

You fall asleep every night wishing you could kiss her again only to punish yourself for it in the morning.

You learn about remorse, too. It is bitter; filthy. Like a stain you can't quite wash off your hands. And you learn how heavy it can be, this time in the dreadful hours you spend with your therapist. You're supposed to talk to her about Anna, about the feelings you have for your sister that are not supposed to be there. 

Misplaced, is a word she often uses. 

"She can help you," your father tells you on the phone, and you shake your head even though he can't see you. The thing is, you don't _want_ to be helped. Not if it means restricting the love you have for her.

Your therapist teaches you about consequences and mistakes, and you think you could come to detest her if it weren't because your heart is filled with so many other things. She asks you to tell her when it all began, and all you can do is stare. You don't know when it all began, you just know that what you feel holds more power over you than a couple of therapy sessions a week. 

For months you return to the dorms feeling defeated. You feel like you're living in a cell—deprived of what you need the most—and as time goes by you start to realize that resentment has taken deep roots inside of you. It slowly begins to weigh you down and, along with your longing, it changes you.

You write her letters, though, even if you can't send any of them. Trite little things for the most part because you're always unsure of what to say. But there is a cathartic sort of consequence in the action itself, and an inherent romanticism in the way you write everything you wish you could say out loud. So you let your hand wander; your words get away from yourself: _I read this poem today that reminded me of you. It talks about impossible love and it makes me wonder, is that what you and I are meant to have?_

But lines like these make you berate yourself, so you scratch them out—sometimes you even discard the letter altogether. You think you have no reason to believe Anna feels the same way about you. A fool, you call yourself (and worse things when it is dark) until you remember that she'd kissed you back with just as much fervent tenderness.

And you feel hopeful again.

No one knows you write these letters; not your therapist; not your parents; not the roommate you barely exchange words with. It is for the best, you think. Like a secret language meant to be shared between the two of you. Even if Anna cannot hear you.

You recall memories of her as your sister— _Remember when we tried to make chocolate and you broke mom's favorite bowl?_ —and when you're feeling at your lowest, you conjure up images of her as something more: _We could run away, just you and me, somewhere nobody knows us. Somewhere we can be together._

Your own honesty fazes you sometimes. You're not used to being this open; not even through the quiet intimacy of words written on paper. But you allow yourself to be because this is the only way you feel like you can externalize the love you have for her. Even if some of these words scare you; even if they take your own breath away.

_I think I'm in love with you._

For three years you nurse the pain of isolation. You don't think it should be possible to feel this lonely—you have college and your teachers, and you have people you can't quite call friends but something close to it—but you do, because it doesn't take you long to realize that Anna is not only your sister but your best friend; the person you feel most alive with.

On summers, you have a job on campus. You consider time and again taking the short flight back home instead, but you fear the consequences of your actions; fear that whatever you do and however you do it, Anna will have to suffer for it. So you stay back and tell yourself it is for the best.

You call yourself a coward.

And maybe you are. Maybe, you think, you conceal your fears behind a selfless facade. Maybe your therapist really is getting to you with all these worst-case scenarios, or maybe all you want is to keep Anna from feeling the burden of your love. The only thing you know is that you will do anything to make sure she's happy.

But then, on a warm summer afternoon that reminds you of the day you kissed her for the first time, you receive the news that bring you down to your knees.

You take the first flight back home and arrive the morning after, all the while thinking that you had never meant for any of this to happen the way it did. And you think, as you watch the clouds through the window and realize that you will be seeing Anna for the first time in three years, that resentment has been washed away by grief. Because your parents are gone and all they have left behind are broken memories—like shards of glass on the floor.

When you arrive home, you stand outside the door without knocking. You take a deep breath even though your chest aches, and even though the exhale that leaves you is a shaky one.

And when your sister opens the door you feel like crumbling to the floor all over again.

"I'm so sorry, Anna," is the first thing you tell her after years of writing letters you never once sent. She says nothing at first. She only hugs you tighter, until you're engulfed in her comfort.

You endure the pain while Anna holds your hand through it all. You think of grief and resentment; of consequences and misplaced love. And when you are alone in bed, it is this last notion that steals the sigh out of your lungs.

Because despite everything and everyone, Anna's lips have remained soft and warm, and your broken notion of home has once again become whole.

* * *

**_2_ **

You spend a while learning how to love Anna as more than just your sister.

You tremble the first time you make love to her. Your bodies moving together as tenderly as your first kiss, driven by passion and the love that has grown and transformed between you.

You discover how soft her navel is against the warmth of your lips; how she whimpers when you brush your fingers across her breasts; how she smells faintly of gardenias and something else—sweet and inherently hers—when you rest your nose in the tender spot behind her ear. 

But for the most part you discover the way you feel when she's naked in your arms, kissing you on the cheek from time to time, drawing small circles on the skin of your abdomen. 

You feel complete.

It takes you a while before you show her the letters you wrote. You do it one morning, a few days before Christmas. It is snowing outside; quiet; dormant. You're sitting on the floor, decorating a small Christmas tree that Anna had found at the dollar store along with colorful ornaments and a star that is more yellow than gold. 

You bring them to her with a tinge of self-consciousness, and your sister asks you if that is her Christmas present because they've all been saved up inside a box. But you say no, although you hope it is something better.

She reads through a handful of them in silence as you watch the tears begin to gather in her eyes before she inhales deeply. It makes you think that perhaps your words have also taken her breath away.

"You're in love with me?" she asks, and you nod even though you think that being in love with Anna doesn't quite cut it.

"I adore you," you murmur, "more than anything or anyone in this world."

She smiles at you, throws her arms around your shoulders. You end up lying on the floor, laughing amidst tears and memories of the things you two used to do with your parents during the holidays. Back when Anna was nothing more than your sister.

You graduate from college the next year, and your heart aches as you walk across the stage because you wish, despite everything, that they were here to see it. But then you find Anna in the crowd, attempting to whistle and shouting your name, waving at you as she smiles proudly from ear to ear. 

And the sight of her heals you.

Anna starts college the following semester while you find a steady job. You're both growing up; maturing. But you realize every morning and every night that your love stays the same.

You argue sometimes: trivial little things that you often forget after a few days. Because she's also your sister and she can drive you a bit nuts. She can be impulsive and say things without thinking, but you have never been able to stay mad at her for too long. Not when she looks at you like that: pouty lips and all. Not when she lets her hands wander over your body in a way she knows you can't resist.

It is many months later until you call her your girlfriend for the first time (calling her your sister is a habit you never quite shake off). It slips; rolls off your tongue as naturally as if you were saying your own name. 

You're at a party with Anna, and it is a bit too crowded and stuffy, and you've had one glass of wine, which is already more than you usually drink. But calling her your girlfriend does something to you that you can't attribute to anything other than your own fluttering heart, and as you catch her eye you realize that it has done something to her, too. So you grab her hand and take her to the balcony. You feel giddy and relaxed as the nighttime breeze touches your warm cheeks while Anna is looking at you the same way she always has—teal eyes shimmering with the little wonders of her soul. 

You let her lean into you before her arms wrap themselves around your shoulders. You kiss her slowly although not tentatively, taking her lower lip between yours. She smiles, you can feel it. And it is then, in your sister's arms, that you realize you have finally learned the meaning behind the word happiness.


End file.
